The Butcher of Smithfield (37 page)

‘Go on, then,’ he sneered. ‘Shoot me.’

Chaloner felt Ireton’s assessment of the situation was accurate: the gunman was far too frightened to pull the trigger. Thus,
when the still night air was shattered by a booming crack, it took everyone by surprise.

Chaloner leapt forward to disarm the astonished Ireton, who aimed a quick punch that forced the spy to duck, then tore away
when he was off balance. Chaloner did
not care, and made no attempt to stop him. When the running footsteps had been swallowed by the night, he turned to face his
rescuer.

‘Christ!’ breathed Greeting unsteadily. He flopped down on a nearby wall, dag dangling limply from his fingers. ‘All I did
was twitch and the damned thing went off. Did I hit anyone?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘You can come out now, Hodgkinson. They have gone.’

The printer emerged cautiously from behind a water butt. He clutched a scarf, and had evidently intended to disguise himself
before joining the affray. Greeting held a similar garment, but had forgotten to put it on. Amateurs, thought Chaloner in
some disgust.

‘How did you know I was there?’ asked Hodgkinson uncomfortably.

‘I saw you.’ Chaloner pulled the shocked Greeting to his feet. ‘We cannot stay here. They will be back with reinforcements,
because they will not appreciate you making fools of them. Come with me.’

He led the way to the crumbling section of the old city wall, although both printer and musician complained that it was too
difficult a climb and made heavy work of the exercise. Eventually, he managed to pull, cajole and threaten them over the top,
then took them to the churchyard of St Giles Cripplegate, where they hid among the trees until he was sure they were safe.

‘You have some very odd skills,’ grumbled Greeting. ‘Bandying swords with felons, scaling walls, knowing your way around dark
cemeteries. Is this where part-time spying for the Lord Chancellor leads? What are you doing here at this time of night, anyway?
I thought you lived on Fetter Lane.’

‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Chaloner, still alert for any sign of pursuit.

‘Hodgkinson owns a print-shop on Duck Lane and I rent the attic above it. We
live
here – you do not. And what were you thinking of, taking on Hectors? Are you insane?’

‘Are
you
insane?’ countered Chaloner. ‘I cannot see Hectors being very happy about heavy-fingered gunmen taking up residence in their
domain, either.’

‘He is right,’ said Hodgkinson sternly to the agitated musician. ‘I told you to point it and wait for me to sneak up behind
them, not merrily blast away at whatever took your fancy. The sound of a gun discharging might have brought the entire gang
down on us.’

Chaloner regarded them uncertainly, not sure what to make of their timely appearance. ‘You are working together?’

‘Williamson wants to know what really happened to Smegergill – he investigates all White Hall deaths.’ Greeting was shaking
almost uncontrollably now the danger was over. ‘So he told me to come to the place where he was murdered, to see what kind
of villains lurk. He believes such men are creatures of habit, and rarely stray far from the scenes of their crimes. I think
he normally hires Hectors for this sort of thing, but as one of
them
might be the killer, he ordered me here instead.’

‘It is brave of you to do it, though,’ said Chaloner, thinking the man was a fool to accept such a commission when his ability
to protect himself was dubious, to say the least.

Greeting seemed close to tears. ‘I had no choice! He said my consort would never play again if I did not do as he asked. If
I had known that offering my services
once
would amount to me selling my soul, I would never have done it. I am not cut out for this sort of thing. I am an artist,
not some lout who wanders around in filthy clothing and knows how to fight and climb walls.’

‘And you?’ Chaloner asked Hodgkinson, overlooking the insult on the grounds that Greeting probably did not realise what he
had said. ‘Are you blackmailed into helping Williamson, too?’

‘Greeting and I are friends – I publish his music, and he rents my attic. When he told me what he had been compelled to do,
I offered to help, because I did not think he should do it alone.’

‘Luckily for you, Heyden,’ added Greeting shakily. ‘I am no Sir Galahad, and would never have tackled Ireton and his friends
had Hodgkinson not told me what to do.’

‘Why did you risk yourselves?’ asked Chaloner, declining to mention that he had never been in any real danger. Ireton had
represented a challenge, but not with Treen getting in the way and grabbing his arms. And unfortunately for Greeting and Hodgkinson,
their act of bravado was likely to have grave consequences for their future in the area.

‘Because Treen said you were the man who attacked Kirby today,’ replied Hodgkinson sheepishly. ‘That makes you a hero to anyone
who resents the Hectors and their safety taxes, and we wanted to save you from them. However, our rescue did not go quite
as planned. Greeting forgot to put on his mask, and then he fired his dag before I was in position.’

‘Mask?’ Greeting looked at the material in his hand, then groaned. ‘Oh, Christ! That means they saw my face! What have I done?
Damn Williamson and his unreasonable demands! And damn you, too, Heyden. I told
Hodgkinson we should not interfere, regardless of your courage in pressing a knife to Kirby’s throat. And speaking of murderous
attacks, Ireton seemed to think you might know more about Smegergill’s demise than you have led me to believe. Is it true?’

‘I did not kill Smegergill,’ said Chaloner quietly.

‘So you have said before. However, you were with him when he was attacked, because Ireton recognised you, and he is not stupid.
And you do match the description given by the witnesses.’

‘Heyden is not the killer,’ said Hodgkinson with considerable conviction. Greeting looked at him in surprise, and so did Chaloner.
The printer hastened to explain himself. ‘Whoever killed Smegergill also stole his ring, and Heyden is no thief. He found
a valuable pen this morning – he could have kept it, but he returned it to me without a moment’s hesitation. A man who kills
for money does not blithely relinquish a silver Fountain Inkhorn.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped they would not ask to see the contents of his pockets, because Smegergill’s ring was in one of them.
‘I was with Smegergill that night,’ he admitted. ‘And I failed to protect him, to my eternal shame.’

Greeting nodded his satisfaction. ‘I knew you were involved somehow. But if you say you did not harm Smegergill, then I shall
believe you. Maylord always said nice things about you, and that is good enough for me. How much longer do we have to stay
here? I am wet through and want to go home.’

‘You cannot go home,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘You do not have anything to tell Williamson yet – other than that Treen and his cronies
charge an unofficial toll for using
Aldersgate, and he probably knows that already. You will have to go back, and see who else comes crawling along.’

‘Ireton, Kirby and Treen attacked the wrong two men the night Smegergill died,’ Chaloner said to Greeting, when Hodgkinson
had gone to see if the coast was clear. ‘They were ordered to ambush an old musician and his younger companion, and be sure
to kill the latter. But their victims arrived early, and they made a mess of the attack. I believe the real target was you.
Not me, and not Smegergill.’

Greeting gazed at him. ‘Me? I do not believe you.’

‘Your coachman was probably bribed to make you get out of his carriage early, forcing you to walk the rest of the way. And
Smegergill’s unanticipated decision to forgo your consort’s official transport led to a case of mistaken identity. You were
carrying documents that night, and Ireton was charged to steal them. What were they? Something you were commissioned to deliver
to Williamson?’

Greeting’s face was white. ‘This cannot be true,’ he said shakily.

‘Spying is a dangerous game, Greeting. People die all the time, especially those who work for Williamson – he considers them
a readily disposable asset. You can keep his confidence if you like, but bear in mind that he will not be equally loyal to
you.’

‘It was music,’ said Greeting in a low, frightened voice. ‘Just music. I tried to tell you.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You mean the strange tunes you said Smegergill and Maylord had been practising? It was their music you
were carrying?’

‘I think so. L’Estrange was at the Charterhouse concert that night, and Williamson told me to collect papers from
him and take them to White Hall the following day. L’Estrange gave me a pouch, and I peeped inside when I got home. It was
just music.’

Chaloner was confused. Had L’Estrange exchanged letters for tunes, because he knew the courier was going to be intercepted
in St Bartholomew’s churchyard? ‘Presumably, you delivered the pouch to Williamson the next day. Was he surprised to see you?
What did he say when he opened it?’

Greeting gazed at him, then raised an unsteady hand to rub his eyes. ‘What have I embroiled myself in? I have no idea whether
he was surprised to see me, because his face is always impassive and impossible to read. He took the package, inspected it
briefly, then threw the whole lot on the fire.’

Leybourn’s house was in darkness, so Chaloner let himself in through the back door. The surveyor kept his worldly wealth under
a floorboard in the attic he used as a study, but before Chaloner could start up the stairs, he heard someone coming down
them. Not wanting to be caught, he slid into a cupboard, taking refuge among brooms, rags and a brimming bucket of slops that
someone had shoved out of sight and forgotten about. The stench in the confined space almost took his breath away.

He was expecting to see Leybourn or Mary, heading to the kitchen for a drink. But it was neither, and he frowned when he recognised
Kirby. Over the Hector’s shoulder was Leybourn’s money sack.

Chaloner was tempted to make a commotion, so Kirby would be caught red-handed, but he was not sure what excuse
he
could give for being in his friend’s house in the
depths of the night. Mary would certainly make hay with the fact that he had broken in, and he did not want to put Leybourn
in a position where he was forced to choose between them again. He followed Kirby outside, and accosted him as he cut through
the graveyard of St Giles without Cripplegate, careful to keep his face in shadow and his voice soft enough to be anonymous.
He had reloaded the gun he had confiscated from Greeting – the musician was a danger to himself with it – and he pointed it
at Kirby as he called through the trees.

‘Put the bag on the ground and raise your hands above your head.’

Kirby leapt in alarm. There was enough light from the street for him to see his assailant was armed, but he quickly regained
his composure. He was braver than Treen. ‘What if I refuse?’

Chaloner cocked the gun. ‘The sack goes on the ground with or without your cooperation.’

Slowly, Kirby set it down. ‘Come to a tavern with me,’ he said wheedlingly. ‘There is no need for rough tactics. We can share
the contents over an ale, and both be happy.’

‘Walk away,’ ordered Chaloner. ‘And do not look back.’

But Kirby was not ready to relinquish such a large fortune without making some sort of stand. ‘You will not shoot me,’ he
blustered. ‘If you want the sack, you will have to come and get it.’

Chaloner was tempted to make an end of him, but he had never enjoyed killing, even during the wars, and was loath to shoot
a man in cold blood. On the other hand, he had no intention of fighting for Leybourn’s treasure. He aimed at a spot just above
Kirby’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The henchman gasped his
alarm at the sudden report, covering his head with his hands as twigs and leaves fell around him.

‘The next ball will be between your eyes,’ whispered Chaloner. ‘Walk away or die.’

When Kirby had gone, Chaloner grabbed the bag and hid behind a tomb, waiting for Kirby to double back and try to catch him.
The man was predictable, and came from precisely the direction Chaloner had anticipated. He watched him pass by on his futile
errand, then headed south, where he kept to the smaller alleys, and the sight of the gun meant no one was reckless enough
to stop him and ask what was in the sack.

Because he was being careful, it took an age to reach home, and by the time he did, he was heartily sick of wind-blown rain.
He was about to go through his front door, when he saw several people sitting in the tavern opposite. It was outrageously
late, even for the Golden Lion, and instinct warned him to be wary. He crouched behind an abandoned hand-cart and waited.
Eventually, one of the patrons stood and stretched. It was Giles Dury – again.

Dury did not seem to be watching Chaloner’s house – at least not obviously so – and the Golden Lion was the kind of inn that
conducted all manner of clandestine business, so the newsman’s presence might have nothing to do with the spy. But Chaloner
was now responsible for Leybourn’s entire personal fortune, and could not put it at risk by returning to his own rooms to
sleep. So he went to Lincoln’s Inn instead. Sinister shadows lurked there, too, although Chaloner was sure they had nothing
to do with him. The Inn was home to several controversial lawyers and some of the country’s most rabid religious fanatics,
so was often under surveillance.
He did not feel inclined to walk through the front gate even so, and scaled the wall at the back instead. Then it was a tortuous
journey through the wet gardens, and a forced entry through a ground-floor window. By the time he reached Chamber XIII and
tapped softly on the door, he was exhausted. So, when Thurloe answered wearing a comical night-cap, Chaloner was too tired
to stop himself from laughing. The ex-Spymaster regarded him coolly.

‘You are filthy and soaked through. What have you been doing? Robbing houses?’

Chaloner nodded as he set the sack on the table. ‘Hopefully, Mary will leave Will when she learns he is destitute – and that
it is not her friends who have the proceeds.’